


Envisage

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Choose Your Own Ending, Fluff, Heavy Angst, M/M, READ EACH CHAPTER'S WARNINGS PLEASE THEY VARY WILDLY FROM FLUFFY TO SERIOUSLY TW, and other stuff in between
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 20:18:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15299247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: A conversation Mycroft has with Greg may or may not be real. Chose your ending...





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a chose your own ending story.
> 
> Chapter 1 (Prelude) is the initial conversation.  
> Chapters 2-6 are the possible continuations of that conversation, each an alternative reality. They are named after the DEFCON levels, if anyone's interested; from 1 (most intense/highest alert) to 5 (least intense/lowest alert).
> 
> *TO AVOID SPOILERS AND TRIGGERS*  
> 1\. Read this story in 'Chapter by Chapter' format.  
> 2\. READ THE CHAPTER TITLE FOR THE TRIGGER WARNING PLEASE. If in doubt, be kind to yourself and chose another ending <3
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading, kudos and comments.

“Oh, my dear,” Mycroft sighs. He can hear Gregory’s voice in his head; it is almost like a real conversation.

“What’s making your eyes blue, gorgeous?”

“Nobody else calls me gorgeous,” Mycroft protests with a smile.

He can see the answering expression as though it’s right in front of him. It could be that lip caught between straight white teeth, eyes a little worried they’d gone too far. If Gregory is more confident, there will be a sparkle in the brown eyes, a faint smirk on that clever mouth.

“Only me,” the whisper says.

“Only you,” Mycroft repeats, his throat thickening at the echoed truth.

“You gonna tell me, then?”

“It’s nothing,” Mycroft says. He can see the patient eyes waiting for him to keep speaking. He takes the hint. “Just…perturbed by all this.”

Gregory nods, his eyes still on Mycroft, still soft, still kind. “Can’t avoid change, darlin’.”

“I know,” Mycroft whispers. “But…” he hesitates, uncertain. “I am not as sure of the outcome as I’d like.”

“I know,” Gregory replies. “All you can do is go with it.” He smiles, and Mycroft’s heart swells a little at that cheeky grin. “Trust me,” he says. “It’s you and me, remember?”

It always is, in the scenarios Mycroft plays out in his head. No matter what’s happening, Gregory is always stalwart and true, patient and kind; the traits Mycroft has seen in real life, extrapolated into every moment he imagines.

The fantasies take up more of his time than he will admit, even to himself.

“You going to stay here all day, then?” Gregory prompts him, the amusement in his voice interrupting Mycroft’s wandering mind.

“Perhaps,” Mycroft replies a little defensively. Not that he can fool Gregory; even in real life, the detective can see through Mycroft like no other. The slightly raised eyebrow is enough to show his amusement at Mycroft’s efforts.

_He knows me so well._

“I have other ideas, if you have the time,” Gregory suggests, and Mycroft feels his heart stutter at the suggestion. He’s powerless against those dark eyes, the smouldering fire just waiting for him. Without a word, Mycroft surrenders into Gregory’s arms.

In his mind, they kiss for hours; Gregory’s skin is addictive, and he seems to find Mycroft equally arousing. Clothes vanish without explanation or fuss, except where the undoing of buttons is more provocative.

Mycroft is as expressive as he always longs to be. His cries ring out, unstifled by the deeply ingrained mortification at his own sexuality. Gregory is appreciative, of course, moaning through his own climax as Mycroft strokes him.

It is magnificent.

It will be cherished.

In reality, it is over in minutes.

He opens his eyes, blinking against the light.

“ _Won’t be long now_ ,” Gregory’s voice ghosts in his mind and Mycroft unconsciously looks around for the source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Now chose your level of intensity, DEFCON 1 (highest intensity) to DEFCON 5 (lowest intensity) - or read them all!
> 
> **READ THE TITLES FOR TWs PLEASE MY LOVELIES.**


	2. DEFCON 1: Cocked Pistol TW: MCD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most intense of the endings.  
> SPOILER FOR THE BOOK, 'THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE DOG IN THE NIGHT TIME' by MARK HADDON.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH.

“It’s me,” says another voice.

Mycroft frowns. _That’s wrong, it’s not Gregory…_

“Mycroft?”

His arms tighten, though he can tell the voice isn’t coming from the mass he’s cradling. They’re wrong, too, those facts. They don’t work together properly.

The voice is concerned.

People aren’t concerned about Mycroft. Only Gregory is ever concerned, but he’s not here. Mycroft wonders where…

“Mycroft, you need to let him go.”

Instinctively he grips tighter. Why is he holding on? It’s important, he knows, and connected to the voice somehow. But the mass is heavy, pressing against his legs, which are tucked awkwardly under him.

Something delicate falls on his face, and he brushes at it. His fingers are stuck together, and they leave a stutter of tacky residue on his cheek. Why does…

Another frown, and he brings his fingers up.

They’re red and brown, the colours difficult to make out with a single source of bright light and so many deep shadows.

“Mycroft, we’re getting wet, mate.”

Rain. It is rain on his face.

Where is his umbrella?

“Where is my umbrella?”

“It’s not here. I don’t know where…you didn’t bring it.”

“We must have my umbrella. We are being rained on.”

“Yes…”

“We need to…” _Why am I using a plural pronoun?_

“He’s…he’s alright, Mycroft. The rain’s not worrying him anymore.”

Mycroft is still looking at his hand. The strange red-brown stain is hit by a raindrop and Mycroft watches it leach colour and run down the pale skin of his wrist. It is unmistakably red.

The water trails further, joined by other droplets, absorbing into his cuff, a semi-circle of pale pink. Mycroft’s eyes continue downwards, sliding past concrete and bitumen to familiar lines and colours.

Silver and charcoal and every shade in between.

Olive skin, pallid where it shows between deep shadows.

The curve of a jaw stubbled in a swirl he could draw with his eyes closed.

Inky shadow in the precise shape of an old chicken-pox scar.

“Gregory…”

His lips move, his throat vibrates, but the voice is not his own. The timbre is wrong, joining the chorus of _‘wrong, wrong, wrong’_ now pounding through his head in time with his pulse.

A memory is dredged up from deep within him. It is the cover of a book glimpsed on a bedside table. A car, a dog, an overly complex title now agonisingly relevant.

_The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time._

Mycroft fights the connection to no avail.

It was the absence of the dog that was curious, and eventually, ominous and telling.

Silence and stillness where sound and motion were ordinary.

Death where life was expected.

Shaking fingers caress Gregory’s jaw, the shape of his eyebrows, the scar where a stone flicked his cheek as a boy.

“Mycroft…”

The voice is Doctor Watson’s, of course. Mycroft’s brain, still grappling with other facts, provides this knowledge without fanfare as though it had not faltered earlier.

 “I can still hear him.” His throat again, but still not his voice.

_How can I let you go?_

“You and me, gorgeous. Deep breath and we’ll do this together.” Gregory’s voice this time, soft and intimate. Just as he always had been in bed, ghosting breath across Mycroft’s ear as they moved together.

Together. Always together.

_“Deep breath, gorgeous.”_


	3. DEFCON 2: FAST PACE

There is nobody there, of course.

Mycroft is alone.

His flat feels empty without the small touches that have crept in over the past eighteen months. Books, unfamiliar CDs, the bric-a-brac of a life casually lived had become the norm, only to be ripped out and thrown in a cardboard box without care. Mycroft’s mind, so used to collecting details, recalls the printing on the side of the box.

_This way UP. Fragile._

As if it matters now.

The ceiling is pristine. Grey-blue eyes stare at it, blinking periodically.

He finds his inability to function...inconvenient. It should not be so difficult. This is hardly the first time an association has ended. It is, however the first time the decision is not his to make.

Mycroft is self-aware enough to recognise the importance of this distinction. There have been sacrifices over the years, from friends to colleagues to lovers; Mycroft has grieved to various degrees.

Not like this, though.

This feels…visceral. A personal affront. As though a part of him has been rent out, thrown carelessly into the cardboard box with Gregory’s belongings. Stripping his life of the light to which he’d become accustomed.

The changes are difficult to reconcile; he is acutely aware of his retreat into the fantasies carefully crafted before he and Gregory had first kissed in the rain that late September evening. They bring him comfort, and his more intimate knowledge of Gregory allows him to embellish his previous scenarios.

He can hear Gregory’s soft tones once more.

Today, he knows his morning dip into fantasy is an effort to calm himself before he meets with Gregory for the first time since they argued. He and Gregory have had their disagreements, but never has he packed his belongings and stormed out.

Mycroft finds he misses details he hadn’t even noticed until now. The scent of bacon on a Sunday morning. A warm arm draped over him in the night. Cocoa beside the coffee pods in his cupboard. The stress of radio silence has taken its toll; Mycroft knows he looks haggard and frail.

A lack of sleep and food will do that.

Gregory will meet him at 10am.

There has been no communication beyond confirmation of the plans; Mycroft has no idea of Gregory’s state of mind. Mycroft is not a man who habitually hopes for his preferred outcome, but he finds tendrils of the fragile emotion curling around his insides. He tries to push them away.

_Either way, the uncertainty will be resolved today._

No matter how hard he tries to soothe his anxious heart, no consolation will take. As he showers and dresses carefully in a suit he knows Gregory likes, Mycroft fights his own instinct to crawl back into bed and ignore the world.

He is ready far too early. For two hours, he sits perfectly still, watching the light change as London wakes and catches up with him.

_If I appear calm, I will be calm._

Gregory’s deep chuckle echoes through his mind. He always could see right through Mycroft.

A deep shaking breath marks the end of Mycroft’s meditation, timed to match the discrete buzzer at his his door.

 _“Just you and me, gorgeous,”_ Greg’s voice whispers in his ear.


	4. DEFCON 3: ROUNDHOUSE

The voice was in his head but the sound of the front door closing is not. Mycroft’s breath catches at the sound, so sharp in the otherwise quiet sanctuary of his home.

“It’s me,” Greg’s voice sounds quietly.

Mycroft’s heart eases. Of course it is Gregory – who else would it be? – but the reassurance of his actual presence is comforting. His footsteps are heavy up the stairs, and Mycroft waits patiently until a tired smile greets him around the doorframe. He puts his book to the side, rising from his wing chair to greet his husband.

_He looks tired._

“Hi, gorgeous,” Greg murmurs. The endearment is thrilling, far more so in real life. It vibrates through him, as Gregory’s arms circle his shoulders and hold tight for several beats. Mycroft breathes him in, the solid man before him. He smells not only of himself, but of London, places with which Mycroft is familiar. The context is wrong, however; he does not associate Gregory with the professional offices in which he has clearly spent time today.

_That will change._

“How did you find the process?” Mycroft can’t help asking.

Greg releases him, ignoring the question in favour of a kiss. All curiosity drains away as Mycroft savours the contact, the gentle press of familiar lips to his. It is easy and slow and he imagines Gregory also takes comfort from the intimacy.

Hands slide over his back and he melts closer, revelling in the press of bodies, in the shared breath as they reacquaint themselves after a day apart.

Mycroft will never tire of this, ever. He finds quiet satisfaction in the spontaneous affection, surprising as it still is to be the focus of such a remarkable man. The thrill winds up his spine as it always does when he thinks of it.

Humming contentedly, Greg releases Mycroft, smiling into his eyes, hands still moving slowly over cashmere covered back. “Went well,” he says, voice a little rough. “A lot of interviews, talking…they’ll let me know.”

“MI-6 will be lucky to have you,” Mycroft replies sincerely. He feels Gregory shift at the praise and hopes once again he accepts the words. Gregory’s desire to move out of NSY had been a source of tension as Mycroft struggled to accept his professional autonomy. Mycroft knows he’ll shine; it is not the test of his capabilities that sits uneasily with the more experienced Government official.  

_It is the idea of him working with such ruthless individuals._

He wants Gregory to shine, to work in a place he feels valued; NSY is no longer that place, but MI-6 might be. While his acceptance is hard won, it is sincere. His own unrest is of no matter. Paradoxically, his mind is eased by the knowledge that, if he expressed serious reservations, Gregory would take them seriously.

It allows him to accept his nervousness without being cowed by it.

It allows him to find courage.


	5. DEFCON 4: DOUBLE TAKE

“Hey,” Greg’s voice sounds from behind him. Mycroft focusses on the glass of water, the book; his bedside table. An arm tightens around him. With a thrill, he recognises the scent, the direction of the voice…

_This is real._

A deep breath, almost a gasp. The conversation in his head had seemed so real, so bright. In comparison this moment was a supernova, blasting all darkness and doubt from his soul.

_This is real._

“You alright there, gorgeous?” Greg’s voice sounds again, and Mycroft turns, lying on his back and tilting his head, breath catching in his throat. His view once again puts his fantasies to shame; subtly muscled, olive skinned perfection lays before him, crowned with an easy-going grin aimed squarely at Mycroft.

Oh Lord.

_He is here. In my bed._

A deep, shaking breath supplies his frozen muscles with oxygen as his brain supplies the bare minimum of details to his consciousness.

_Last night, our first kiss, and then…_

“Not having second thoughts, I hope.”

Mycroft realises his astonished silence is being misconstrued and he hastens to speak. “Not at all.”

He swallows, meeting Greg’s eyes.

They are as gentle as he has always imagined in the fantasies that have plagued him since their first meeting. The facial expressions in his carefully crafted scenarios are true to life – caught once or twice in the course of their association and saved for just that purpose. He has thought they were accurate, a virtual replication of intimacy with Gregory Lestrade.

He was wrong. So, so, wrong.

Now, though, the real thing is in front of him. He can see his errors immediately, in the details unseen until now, the stronger body and softer eyes and mere presence of the silver haired man. It is close to overwhelming.

_Astonishing that I should be permitted such an opportunity for happiness._

“I can’t believe…” Mycroft’s voice fails him. He takes a deep breath and pushes on. Gregory deserves at least that from him. “I can’t believe you are here.”

As he anticipates, the brown eyes soften at his words.

“I’m here, gorgeous,” Greg murmurs, shifting closer, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. His lips are a little chapped, but warm and divine. Mycroft would not change it for the world. He wonders how he has lived his life until this moment. How have his fantasies sustained him, mere ghosts as they are?

This reality is already surpassing his most details imaginings. With a shudder, a whisper of doubt flitters down his spine.

Greg stills, his muscles tightening momentarily before he relaxes. His mouth shifts and Mycroft feels the smile shape against his collarbone.

The words are quiet but clear, and Mycroft is not sure if they’re in his head or not. Somehow, it doesn’t seem to matter.

“ _Don’t worry, it’s not in your head._ ”


	6. DEFCON 5: FADE OUT

There’s nobody there, of course. Mycroft’s home is quiet and still as always. His tea is cold, late breakfast barely touched; his mind has wandered, and for good reason.

Without thinking, he opens his phone, reading once again the message he received last night.

 

_Hope we’re still on for tomorrow night? Looking forward to it. GL x_

 

The whole thing is astonishing, of course. The conversation that pre-empted the conversation comes back to him; there is no need to imagine Gregory’s behaviour. It is etched in his memory. The scuffing of his shoe against the rough, wet ground, the hopeful brown eyes on his as an offer is made.

“You wouldn’t fancy a drink with me, would you? A date, I mean.”

The few words are more than Mycroft could have dreamed. They bring him more pleasure than the most elaborately arranged fantasy. His own reply, embarrassingly stammered as his fingers flexed around his umbrella is less enjoyable; even now his cheeks flush at the memory.

Gregory did not notice; a smile bloomed on his face at Mycroft’s halting words.

And now there are mere hours until his fantasies become moot, relegated to the back corner of his mind. With luck and a certain acceptance by Gregory of his admittedly unusual personality quirks…Mycroft has not allowed himself to fully consider the possibilities. Disappointment would be…difficult to accept.

But Gregory did ask him, pushing them past the uneasy stasis both had accepted. Gregory has taken the first step, bitten the bullet…all possible phrasings are swirling through Mycroft’s head. He is still holding a significant portion of disbelief at tonight’s plan; only the actual arrival of Gregory at the prearranged time will ease his mind.

Closing his phone, Mycroft stands up. He is nothing if not opportunistic, and this is one opportunity he is determined to grasp with both hands. For all his nervousness, he is not a foolish man; if Gregory is brave enough to ask him on a date, Mycroft will not disappoint.

While it is in his power, he will _not_ disappoint that man – and his power is considerable.

With nine hours until they are due to meet, it is high time he begins the critical selection of his attire for the evening. He has several ideas, but only trial and error will bring him to the perfect combination of suit, shirt, tie and accruements.

“More interested in you than your suit, gorgeous,” the voice whispers.

Mycroft smiles as he clears his breakfast. His heart is uncharacteristically optimistic as he moves towards his wardrobe, the echo of Gregory’s chuckle following him out.


End file.
